jpsdm (jpsdm) wrote,

Aidenn. (2/2)

title: aidenn (2/2)
pairing: heemin. minmi + others.
rating: PG13
summary: is there balm in gilead?
warning: character death, violence, some almost cursing, smoking; and possible grammatical errors.

It was a cold, wet night. After raining for a full six hours prior to the night, the streets were soaked and the couple had found shelter under the overhang of a hotel. The patrons were nice enough to let them stay until the rain let up. They were asked to leave, so they did. It broke his heart. If he was just a slight bit more out of his mind, he would have stepped inside that hotel, tainted their pristine floors with his shoes and slapped that man that had told them to leave. But he could be respectful for the night was young.

His footsteps were wet against the concrete. The only sound on the quiet streets besides the ringing in his ears and Kibum's voice in his head. He's your muse. You back off. You back the fu- He now wished he hadn't given his last bill to the starving angel on the street. He could have treated him to dinner. Somewhere nice, a warmth in the room. A violin softly singing in the background, and a large portion of something fancy. Italian. Probably pasta.

He passed each alley way, eyeing the homeless that lined the alley, leaning up against a friend, or sometimes a trash can. They were ruthless, starving, violent as anyone would be when they knew their life was on the line. He had fought them off as a highschooler, easy to pull out a blade and hear their footsteps retreat. His angel was not as lucky, the majority of his bruises from fights, the rest from his lover. He sported a black eye, a busted lip, and he was so pale.

He still would run his fingers down the angel's arms. He still would admire his chapped lips, shaped perfectly, a cupid's bow, and he would kiss them back to life. He could be a prince if he wanted, princely in actions. He subconsciously straightened his back, smiling at the thought of the Italian restaurant again.

It would be perfect.

Five months until graduation. Kibum was counting the days down, calendar on the fridge with a bright red marker. "Heenim, stop staring."

"I'll stop staring when you stop being a fake as-" And most conversations ended with a small fight, argument, a door slamming and the small elderly couple opening their door and asking him if he were okay. They were nice. The kind of people he would want for grandparents. They always offered money, constantly reminded him he had a place to stay if something were to happen. They were the family he had abandoned at age eighteen. Abandoned for Kibum. Dirty, vile Kibum.

Kibum, a ghastly grim, who smelled like dirty cologne, linoleum halls, and occasionally sweat and sex. He came home disheveled, hair messier than usual, marks on his body, and equipped with photos of the boy. The boy's eyes were brighter, as if waiting for the end, waiting for graduation. Kibum said he wanted to get away, he spoke of it often to his friends. He wanted to visit Paris, Rome, Moscow, anywhere he possibly could. Wanderlust rolled perfectly off Heechul's tongue.

He would take his angel to an Italian restaurant in Italy. A restaurant overlooking the Sardinian sea. It would be beautiful, warm. A warm wind would keep them cool, and candle lights would make his angel glow. He would smile, laugh, a sound that the gods themselves would pause to listen. A music more beautiful than any American orchestra, any American singer. He would bask in its sound, live, die and simply exist in that angelic noise.

There would be violins, the sea waves crashing. He knew his angel had a taste for wine, and he would scour the seas for the best. He would walk miles, miles, miles until his feet bled. Anything for his angel.

Four months, he noticed. Four months until his now eighteen year old victim would wear his black cap, toss it happily into the air and began to sate his wanderlust with plane tickets, airport food, and luggage. He would first travel to China; Shanghai he had mentioned calmly to a few girls. Kibum now had a key to his household, and he stunk with candles and fresh detergent. He stunk with homemade kimchi, and feminine perfume. A fruity scent. He had a sister, Kibum was disgusting.

Four months until the kid would be free. Three months, three months, three months and Kibum came home with blood on his clothes and a distorted smiling muttering "together forever". Heechul spent the night washing clothes in the bathtub, while Kibum rocked on the counter chewing his lip raw.

Heechul no longer cared because both of their angels were now on the streets, homeless, and without a family to call their own.

Four months. Heechul smoked a pack a day watching his angel raise his voice at his lover. Heechul smoked a pack a day watching his angel gain bruises from foreign hands, and bloodied fists of the man. His fingers were heavy with regret that he had not attacked early. His fingers were heavy with plans and his mind busied itself with Kibum's words.

He's your muse. Admit it.

His mind awoke when it began to rain, hearing his angel squeal with delight as he ran after his lover looking for shelter. His smile was wide for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. He laughed, spun around, took his time, and was simply living. He met his eyes, and offered him a wave, motioning him out into the rain.

He refused this time, leaving his angel with a smile as he made his way back to his apartment.

He believed things were beginning to look brighter.

An Italian restaurant overlooking the Sardinian sea. His footsteps were heavy against the ground. A beautiful candle lit dinner; pasta, chicken, anything for the delicate creature with the bright eyes and wide smile. "He's not my muse," he muttered to himself. It would be evening. They would watch the sunset together, arms wrapped around each other. "Is there's balm in Gilead?" The night would end in pleasure. The first time his fingers would loving caress his angel. It would be romantic, not tainted with the filth of Kibum. With his promises of nevermore, nevermore, nevermore.

A scream. A plead for help. His heart sunk as he recognized the tone, the voice, the plea. He pulled the cold metal from his pocket, fingers heavy, mind set, turning on his heel, down the side road, alley, corner. The back alley of some business that didn't quite catch his eye the first time. The kid. The kid was on the ground, bloodied, beaten. The kid, legs pulled to his chest and whimpering.

And there he was. The tall foreigner, licking his wounds as someone rifled through the kid's pockets. A wallet was found and a squeal of delight. His squeal. His angel's squeal. He raised the gun, cocking it back, aiming it at the taller man. He vaguely recalled the man pleading. We don't want any trouble, his pronunciation faltering, slipping back into his native tongue. Then the angel spread his wings, standing in front of his lover.

Arms outspread ready to end his life for that filth. Vile, disgusting- And then his angel crumpled. He didn't even react when the taller man lunged, simply pulling the trigger once more, eyes set on his angel. His beautiful fallen angel, blood dripping from his lips, eyes still in shock. Outside of his mind the kid groaned, whined, cried, and he still could not lay a finger on his angel.

"Get up. We have to go." He pulled the kid to his feet, blood heavy in the air as the kid near screamed. "We have to run. We have to run."

The kid struggled two blocks before his ankle gave out, a sickening crunch as he fell to the sidewalk. Heechul tossed him over his shoulder, satisfied when the kid's breathing became heavy despite his obvious broken ribs. He made it to the apartment without the eldery couple coming to check on him. He managed to toss the kid onto the couch before Kibum tried to touch, contaminate, and ruin a perfectly good life more than he had already.

His hair messy, marks on his neck, jaw, lips. Heechul punched him in the face, satisfied with the crunch that came along with it. Kibum packed his things quietly, and the sound of his car was heard minutes later. He washed the blood off himself, and then began with the kid.

"What's your name?" he asked softly, sensing the kid's fear.
"Cho....Kyuhyun." the kid murmured.

The news played idly in the background as Heechul smoked his last cigarette. There was no Sardinian shore, only the Plutonian one as the child shook in his corner of the room. He could still feel Kibum's eyes on him as the shadows on the floor began to whisper, "He's your muse. He's your Aidenn."

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